For several minutes En Berenguer de Rocafort sat pondering. Finally he clapped his visor down. One gauntlet made a chopping motion. His standard bearer raised the gonfanon. His bugler sounded the. advance. The other trumpets took it up till the mountaintop shrieked.
They moved forward slowly, keeping time. The knightly lanceheads rose and fell with a ripple, as if they were a grainfield in the wind. Except for a steady drum-thump, the deep ground vibration of feet and hoofs, everything became death silent. Far, far overhead, Lucas heard a skylark; he felt sweat tickle his ribs; there was an itch beneath his mail that could not be scratched.
This may be heroic--but I’d rather lie abed with Djansha, he thought. He tried to conjure up her image, while more pious warriors were rapt-faced envisioning the holy saints. Instead, he kept seeing Violante. She was laughing.
The advance lasted a century, but when it was over, a bare instant had gone by. Suddenly Lucas made out the Byzantine ranks as separate men, gaudy banners and horse trappings, an officer’s plumes blowing about his gilt helmet. Was he here already?
Trumpets wailed, faint across the valley. The Imperial left wing, Alans and Turcopols, charged.
“Aragon and St. George!” The Catalan cry broke free like thunder.
Lucas kept his place. The gelding pranced under him. He stroked its neck. “Not yet,” he soothed. “Not until we’re told, my pretty. We will be, soon enough, never fear.”
His tension slackened somewhat. He recalled that a battlefield was actually not too unsafe a place to be, except when the front of combat passed by. Even that was better than prolonged sitting in camp, where disease forever stalked.
Trumpets blasted closer by. The Catalan chivalry lowered lances and attacked.
They started at a walk. It became a trot, a canter, a full earthquake gallop. Lucas watched the standard of his own division. It began to move. He clucked to his mount. The Almugavares jogged behind him.
Then their war shout filled the bowl of heaven. “Desperta ferres!” Awake the iron! As they neared the dust cloud boiling ahead of them, they struck their spearheads against stones. The iron clanged and grated. Sparks showered upward.
The knights of Aragon smote the Byzantine hirelings with a noise that roared from horizon to horizon. Lucas heard lances splinter and horses scream. He had glimpses through the dust and flying clods--an Alan’s spear glided off the poitrail of a Catalan horse, the Catalan sword smote, the Alan toppled from his saddle; another man lay with a crossbow quarrel in his throat; a steed bolted, dragging its rider behind from one stirrup.
The enemy charge broke. They surged back upon their own rear guard. The array of Catalonia and Aragon blazed onward, through squadron after Byzantine squadron.
Lucas did not see them. He was fighting with the infantry.
The well-dressed Greek lines stood firm before him, a wall of shields, helmets above and greaves below, pikes thrusting between, all brilliant in the strengthening sunlight. But even as he approached them, Lucas thought how his own men must look, long-haired, skin-clad, sparks whirling at their feet, yelping now the “Aur! Aur!” they had learned from the Saracens. A legion out of Hell!
Crossbows snapped. Their bolts whistled from the Catalan flanks. Lucas’ own troopers threw their javelins. The clatter against Greek mail came dry and dreadful. Many stuck in flesh.
He spied one man down, tugging at the barbed steel in his thigh. He drew his saber and galloped for the breach.
Reining in, he hewed at a mouth which cursed him. The soldier ducked in time; Lucas’ edge bounced off the helmet. An ax struck his greave. He cut at the arm that wielded it. There was the heavy bite of steel going into meat. The Byzantine yammered and dropped his ax. Lucas saw a pike jab from his left. He caught the point on his buckler. The impact jarred him. With spurs and knees he urged his horse forward, slowly, into the seething men. The pike-bearer heard the saber whine above him. He melted backward into the crumpling ranks.
Iron banged on hardened leather. The Almugavares had closed in with daggers. Pedro sidestepped a thrust, got his belly next to an enemy shield, pulled that down with his left hand and stabbed with his right. His opponent threw a frantic arm around him. They rolled to the ground together. Pedro scrambled on top, struck, raised his dripping knife and struck again. There was no need for another stab. “Aur! Aur!” he howled.
Lucas’ horse reared, whinnying, and a spearman charged, ready to skewer it. He leaned far over, as Mongols did, and cut at the man’s arms. The Byzantine scrambled clear. No use trying to fight from horseback in this press of bodies. Lucas jumped to the ground, slapped his steed on the rump and let it escape.
His saber clanged on an enemy shield. For a moment he looked into the man’s eyes. A sense of freedom leaped within him. This was no time for doubts or dreads. It was good honest war!
He smote, shouting.
All at once nobody stood in front of him. He spied a few scattered Greeks who were fleeing. Their main body had vanished into the dust cloud, routed. Corpses were stark on the ground; the wounded, most of whom would also die, groaned for water; flies settled on clotting blood.
Lucas looked toward the standard of his division. It stood high. Trumpets called for the lines to re-form. Panting, grinning, but quick to obey, the Almugavares made ranks and moved onward.
They broke the next opposing battalion. And the next. And the next.
The Imperial army buckled.
Afterward En Jaime, who had witnessed it, told Lucas how Michael Paleologus tried to stop the retreat. The co-Emperor did not lack courage. He brought up the reserves; himself at their head, he couched lance and charged the middle of his foes. They held fast, but the combat was hard. Michael encountered a man in splendid armor on a fine horse, who seemed an officer of importance though he lacked a shield. But he was only a mariner from Barcelona who had won his trappings at Gallipoli and had left off the shield because he did not know how to use it. Michael’s sword wounded him on the left arm. The sailor urged his horse forward, closed with the prince and thrust with a dagger. One of those blows cut Michael in the face, so that he lowered his shield and fell from the saddle. Still he fought bravely, wounding the sailor again. That gave the Imperial guards a chance to rally around him and bear him off the field.
His men streamed after, division by division, the best of them fighting stubbornly, the worst of them stampeding. Toward sunset, the last skirmish was over. The Byzantines had taken refuge in Apros castle. Te Deum laudamus lifted triumphant from the throats of the Grand Company.
Chapter VII
“We could not take the castle,” Lucas admitted, “though we were there full eight days. But then, most of that time we were plundering their camp and the neighborhood. We loaded ten carts with treasure, so high that each needed four oxen to draw it. The cattle we drove off covered the land as far as a man might see.”
Djansha hugged her knees and regarded him with awe. Her coppery tresses streamed over the bare young breasts. “So you are made a wealthy uork, my lord.”
“The booty has yet to be divided.” He stretched luxuriously. Hardihood be damned, after two weeks in the field it was good to lie abed. They had entered Gallipoli at dusk, and En Jaime had invited Lucas to share dinner. Afterward, they drank wine together till late, speaking of far countries and of what great things might be done here. En Jaime had even shown courteous interest for an hour or more while Lucas discoursed of stars and planetary motions and the nature of comets, the first such conversation he had had for years. So he came late to his chamber and fell instantly asleep.
This dawn he had awakened to a fire blown up in a brazier, Djansha waiting to serve him his food. He ignored the piece of fat she threw in the coals, with a muttered invocation to Tleps, the fire god. Instead, he pulled her down beside him. . . . But that was two hours past. Now he felt a restless desire for he knew not what. So he talked, telling her about the expedition.
“My share in the proceeds will not be so little,” he said. �
��Of course, the stuff is mostly war gear. But I’ll trade with others who already possess jewels. Would you like a gold necklace?”
The tousled head bent. “It is enough that my lord lives.” He scowled. Now that the Company could take up a somewhat more assured residence, he wanted to shine as an officer. Djansha would excite admiration, envy, prestige--if she were a Christian of good birth who spoke Catalonian. Otherwise, she was a mere slave whom he might casually be asked to lend, like a whetstone or a horse. (No; one did not borrow a knight’s personal steed.)
It seemed almost pointless, then, to dress her well.
She looked back at him with a return of fear. “Must you go out fighting again soon?”
“I don’t expect any real battles for a long time,” he said. “We broke the Byzantines; their losses were high and their resolution is gone. When we quit Apros, they were hastening toward Adrianople. I doubt Michael will be mad enough to take the field against us a second time.”
“Shible shall have the worth of an ox for that!” she exclaimed radiantly.
“Hold!” he said in alarm. “How often must I warn you, heathen sacrifices are forbidden here?”
“Then your god, Keristi, is that his name? Keristi I will thank, with an offering of--”
“No need! I must see to your education before--” He broke off. Damned be these endless nuisances, anyhow! If Father Pere baptized her, that prune-lipped old busybody would expect a substantial donation. And in order to establish himself in the respect of the great officers, Lucas had a thousand other expenses. Also, if she then relapsed, she was liable to ecclesiastical punishment, even to burning. It seemed best to wait a while.
He said quickly: “Of course, the war continues. We must force an indemnity from the Emperor, if he does not cede us this province. But as yet, we can’t hope to take Constantinople or Adrianople. So En Jaime de Caza thinks we’ll confine ourselves to raiding. That should be a frolic!”
“Oh.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. My lord must do as he thinks best.”
“You need not fear for my life.”
“No … “
“Well, then?” he asked, snappish in his impatience. Though uncertain of what he had expected of her, he felt disappointment. She had been sweet in his arms; but that was not the whole of life. Yet was he just in demanding a simple barbarian girl should appreciate his account of a military campaign and of future policy?
“Nothing.” She slipped one long leg from the bedclothes to the floor. Her voice was small. “If my lord allows, I will bathe and dress myself.”
He seized her wrist. “What ails you?” As she remained silent: “I command you to tell me.”
“I do fear you will be slain,” she mumbled. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him and her face turned downward.
“God’s mercy! I can’t stay at home when my comrades are fighting! I thought you wanted a warrior.”
“Forgive me, my lord. It is stupid of me. And--”
“Yes? Out with it!”
She gulped. “I am so lonely here.”
He let her go. She stood up and walked toward the tub of water standing beneath a peacock mosaic.
“Well,” he grumbled, “I can do little about that. I can't afford another . . . another slave. Not yet.”
“I could not talk to her.” Djansha stopped at the edge of the tub. A flush reddened face, throat, and bosom. “Nor would I want anyone else--No, forgive me. My lord must do as he pleases.”
“I like not bread and milk,” he barked. “Have you no pepper in you at all?”
She stared at him. Her accent worsened. “I not understand, pray pardon.”
“Oh, no matter, no matter,” he sighed. “I suppose you have found confinement to this house wearisome. But didn’t I say you could walk abroad in the city while the host was absent?”
“Empty.” He saw the shudder go along her flesh. “So many houses empty, my lord. A few people ran away and hid when they saw me coming. In one house, no one had taken away the corpse. Her arm was cut off, I saw. Rats had eaten half of her.”
“Be still!”
“And walls. Everywhere walls! No trees, no children, only walls.”
“Be still, you whimpering bitch!” He sprang from the bed. She went to her knees. The long hair fell past her cheeks, hiding her countenance.
“There was much evil committed here,” he agreed, unwillingly, his words so blurred in his haste to be done with them that she most likely did not follow. “The Company had just gotten the news their chief was murdered. Their own allies had attacked without warning. A few of their comrades quartered outside the city fled here, telling how all the rest had been slaughtered. They’re fiery men. They avenged themselves on the nearest Greeks to hand. It’s done now. It will not be done again.”
She huddled where she was.
He spat an oath, went to the tub himself, sponged his body and dressed. By all foul devils, he thought, she took satisfaction in spoiling his victory for him!
He walked stiff-legged from the chamber.
Of course, he thought as he went down the hallway beyond, she had good reason to fear his death. Into whose hands would she pass? He should make some provision--Later, later. Why did these women never leave a man in peace? And why could she not have spoken her fear honestly, instead of pretending it was his life which mattered to her? He was nothing but a master more easy-going than she had expected. Too easy-going, no doubt. What else could he be?
Why did it make any difference what she felt, a slave?
He wished he had some work to occupy him, but the main body of the Company was still on the road with their plunder. The leading knights had exercised privilege of rank to ride ahead of the oxcarts, thus gaining an idle day or two in Gallipoli. Their immediate attendants had accompanied them.
Djansha was right, Lucas admitted, about those graveyard streets. He himself had no wish to enter them. New inhabitants must be recruited, he thought. This could become a great port--crowded, busy, happy, given a wiser government than the Emperor’s. A hundred years hence, Gallipoli would be thankful the Catalans had taken her. Nonetheless, he did not want to leave the house.
He came out on a portico and went down the steps. The house surrounded three sides of a garden, with an ivy-covered wall to close the fourth. The flowerbeds had been ruined by soldiers going in and out the gate; horses had been stabled in one wing, outside which the grooms squatted, dicing and speaking obscenely. But a row of willows blocked them from view. The weeds that had sprung up were a brave green under heaven. Though dry, the stone fountain in the center was graceful to look at. Lucas paused to soothe himself with the sculpture of the basin, young Perseus unchaining Andromeda.
“Good morning, Maestre.”
He wheeled about with a jerkiness that told him how on edge he still was. Na Violante de Lebia Tari smiled at him. He bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Your servant.”
“Would that were true,” she said. “You would be an admirable servant: quick, clever, and amusing. But--” she cocked her head--”a better master, I think.”
Bewildered, for this carried their flirtation well beyond the bounds proper to a lady addressing a man, he felt his skin go hot. He looked around. No one else was to be seen. “You are up early,” he said clumsily.
“Like yourself. The rest are still snoring.” Her fan fluttered along the low crimson bodice, which seemed delightfully in peril of bursting asunder. One ankle peeped from beneath sweeping skirts. As usual, she ignored decorum and covered her blue-black hair with no more than a mantilla. “I had nothing to do except walk in the garden. My maidservants dressed me. I told them to stay behind, though. An hour alone is too precious a thing.”
“I beg your pardon, Na Violante. I’ll depart at once.”
“No, no!” She caught his hand, then let it go, her fingers slipping across his knuckles. “You didn’t let me finish, Maestre. True, I often wish to be alone with my thoughts. But g
ood company is the rarest pleasure of all. I shall be very angry if you leave.”
His tongue began to find its accustomed glibness. “Then, since my lady’s anger would also provoke that of great Jove and any other god with eyes in his head, I must stay.”
“La! Are you French, Maestre Lucas? They say the Provencals are the world’s most shameless flatterers.”
“No, my lady. I am--” Lucas stopped. What was he, indeed? he wondered with a returning emptiness.
“Oh, yes, Venetian. I know. So I have met at least one Venetian who can outflatter any minstrel from Provence. You know not how refreshing that is, after a lifetime of dour Hispanics, cringing Sicilians, and Easterners who can hardly talk at all.”
“I do not flatter, bella Donna,” said Lucas. “In the presence of such splendor I am stricken nearly dumb. At best, any words are a poor, pale tribute.”
She sat down on a stone bench. “Come, join me,” she said, and drew her skirt aside. After a moment, he did so. There were still some inches between them, but he had a sense of being enveloped, as if in the odor of jasmine. Since it drowned out that certain desolation in him, he prolonged things with chatter.
“Is not that fountain a beautiful work? Ancient Grecian, beyond doubt. The pagans could make stone come almost alive. And yet, if Na Violante had posed for a Venus, I think the sculptor would never have dared pick up his chisel. On the one hand, his finest efforts would still have done you the grossest injustice. On the other, he might fear a divine power would suffuse him and make him actually reveal the truth, actually portray my lady--in which case, envious Queen Venus would strike him blind.”
They had jested like this before, from time to time over the wine cups. Half the amusement for Lucas had been to make Asberto Cornel glower; for he could never forget the peasant who fled. But today, suddenly, she laid a hand on his knee. He stopped talking and looked at her, stupefied.
Rogue Sword Page 8
